


The Winchester Gospels

by sunsmasher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Suicide, post-Sam and Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsmasher/pseuds/sunsmasher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August 12th, 2038, Christianity gets a bit of a retcon. For four former side characters to the Winchester shitshow, this isn't entirely welcome.</p><p>Or: A Collected History of the Days After the Gospels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge, and the First Day

_One summer, Dean Winchester bleeds out on the floor of a Minnesota quarry. Sam Winchester, hair mostly grey and missing two fingers, dispatches the wendigo, makes a few calls, and then puts his gun in his mouth and has done with it._

_Over the past twenty years, no fewer than three beings of unimaginable cosmic power have pulled the boys aside and reminded them that, despite their past subscription to Heaven's Frequent Flier program, this next death would be quite permanent. Sam finds this a comfort more than anything._

\---

The bizarre story of an apparent double-murder-suicide (featuring two men without names and a third without a species classification) should have made at least page two in the Twin Cities' Star Tribune. Despite its inherent sensationalism, the story barely makes it to print. What fills its place on the front page of the Star Tribune, as well as the front page of most every other publication on the planet, is decidedly more historical.

\-----

_Thursday (Day 1)_

Although she thumbs through its pages almost every day, Claire Novak has not actually read her father’s Bible in a number of years. The imitation leather spine is cracked and crumbling, the pages dog-eared, highlighted, and generally abused near to the point of illegibility, but not by her hand. Jimmy Novak was an active reader, and he believed in God the way certain people believe in sports franchises. Claire believes in God the same way people believe in public transportation, but with even less faith in the system.

But the Bible is a happy memory, so she keeps it still, and imagines that her hands are her father’s, and she sits on his lap on the couch in the front of the house, sounding out the thick language of the parables with only a little bit of help. She drifts in waking dreams of warm Sunday afternoons until her daughter calls from downstairs, and she sets the book down with only a small sigh.

Claire returns to her seat within twenty minutes, wiping her hands on a dishrag. She picks up the Bible and pauses, frowning. There’s something not right. The book has changed since she last held it, sits heavier in her grip. The lines in Claire’s face deepen as she examines it, flipping back and forth through the pages. She pauses near the end, around the middle of Revelations, and reads:

“…and so the Angel Castiel released the Holy Vessel Claire and returned to the Holy Vessel Jimmy Novak, blood of Ishmael, healing his wounds as…”

This is not Revelations.

Claire screams.

\---  
 **NEW GOSPEL APPEARS IN BIBLES WORLDWIDE**  
 _Associated Press_

In a turn of events that has shocked believers and non-believers alike, a new book has appeared in Christian Bibles the world over. 

The book, entitled the Gospel of the Winchesters, details several years in the lives of two men, Sam and Dean Winchester, who unintentionally began and then averted the Christian apocalypse as detailed in the book of Revelations early this century.

Although the contents sound unbelievable, experts have already begun to match the dates provided in the Gospel to the dates of previously unexplainable events, such as the emptying of River Grove, Oregon in 2006, the Eastern Seaboard blackout of 2009, and the dozens of natural disasters that rocked the globe in May 2010.

In addition, the names used in the Winchester Gospel seem to match those of people living at the time of the events, with the notable exception of the Winchesters themselves. 

Although two brothers by the name of Sam and Dean Winchester were alive in the early 21st century, public record indicates that they perished in a gas explosion in 2008. An anonymous source within the FBI has informed the AP, however, that the men are listed as dead on at least two different dates in FBI records, indicating a possible error.

No explanation has yet been provided as to how the 1246 verses made their way into every copy of the Bible extant today, regardless of denomination or publication date. Sources at the Library of Congress have confirmed that the Winchester Gospel has appeared even in their heavily protected copy of the Gutenberg Bible, which is printed on vellum.

Already claims have arisen that the appearance of the Gospel is an act of God, although many believers have been quick to point out that the Winchester Gospel presents an image of God, angels, and even the devil that heavily contradicts pre-existing scripture. According to Hans-Josef Klauck, a Professor of New Testament and Early Christian Literature at the University of Chicago Divinity School, “it smacks more of Milton than Matthew.”

Representatives at the Vatican were unavailable for comment.  
\---  


File: 1344835243454.jpg-(21 KB, 369x423, fuckyeah.jpg)  
 **Anonymous** (ID: HZ0BVETo) 08/12/38(Thu)01:20:43 No.418457795 [Reply]

hey /b/ you probably noticed a bit of a disturbance in the jesusfag force today. but did you also notice that the new bible is the shitty book series your mom used to schlick to? 104 books, ran in the 2000s and guess who the demon-hunting, devil-killing heores were? if you guessed sam and dean winchester then congrats, you get to suck my dick. 

here’s the bitch who owns the rights to the series now: 

Rebecca Rosen 455 Hunter’s Run  
Pike Creek, DE 19711  
+1 (302) 138 8907  
webmistress@morethanbrothers.net 

think we should give her a call /b/ros? 

pic related; it’s my dick 


	2. The Fifth Day

_Monday (Day 5)_

Benjamin Braeden has fleas in his brain. Or at least, he tells his doctor, that’s what it feels like. His doctor, whose hair has come loose from its ponytail and curls in thick ropes around her neck, does not appear as interested by this as Ben may have hoped. The woman sighs, and the erratic skitter of her ballpoint pen against the Formica grows louder. Ben thinks she may be either very caffeinated, or very tired. There are dark stains at her cuffs, still fresh enough to creep towards her elbows, and he thinks she may be both.

“Fleas?”

“Or lice, I guess. The inside of my head itches like hell, I’m having a tough time thinking of a better analogy.”

The doctor’s lips are a thin white dash across her face.

“And when did you say this sensation began, Mr. Braeden?”

“Last Wednesday, late in the evening”

“And had you been drinking that day?”

“I had a beer at my hotel, but that was it. No drugs either, before you ask.”

Ben cannot keep the edge from his voice, and guilt ties a square knot in his chest. His problem, however much it infuriates him, would rate as a mere mild lunacy even on the best of days. These are not the best of days.

“And has anyone in your family had a similar experience?”

“My mom used to get migraines a lot when I was a kid, but not recently.”

“And on your father’s side?”

“Never knew him.” 

Some expression twists the doctor’s face, but Ben does not bother to decipher it. There is sandpaper lining his skull, itching powder sunk in the folds of his brain, and he’s so close to just ripping his head open with his fucking fingernails. 

The doctor continues, but what she says is not what he wants to hear. It’s a symptom of stress, a symptom of fatigue, and she is not telling him that in her professional opinion he’s full of shit, but he wishes she would. If the itching is imagined, then maybe the voicemail, received last Wednesday, late in the evening, as they taxied into LAX and the co-pilot informed the passengers they could now turn on all portable electronics, is part of the delusion. 

He is outside the hospital waving down a cab as the wind pares the skin from his bones and he thinks, I have never wanted to go to South Dakota less in my life. 

\---

**WORLD STOCKS FALL AS BANK RUNS RISE**  
 _By Pui-Wing Vascellero_

NEW YORK—Stocks continue to fall worldwide as consumer confidence spirals and bank runs increase, driven by the appearance of the Winchester Gospels last Thursday. 

The DJIA fell 876 points today to close at 51,488; its largest single-day drop since the 3D printing bubble burst, and the BM&F Bovespa index fell by 7.8%, also setting records. Asian markets tilted lower as American markets closed.

President Chiu’s address Sunday evening did little to ease American consumer’s fears as three more banks, all located in Southern states, failed today after bank runs left them severely destabilized. Federal regulators are warning that a bank panic may ensue if the growing crisis is not addressed.

The White House stood by this weekend as reports of riots and looting across the country, but especially in more heavily Christian states, poured in. 

Similar disturbances have appeared around the globe, again concentrated in more Christian regions, such as South America, Eastern Europe, and southwestern Africa. 

The more secular Western Europe, as well as East Asia and Australia, have so far avoided such wide-scale disruption, although the Stoxx Europe 600 is down 3.4% and the Nikkei 225 is down 2.1%. 

According to Noel Ó Caoláin, current President of the European Central Bank, “There is an unease in the air, no denying it, but I do believe we will see a rebound in the markets as folks come to realize that these are not end times. The end times, it appears, have come and gone.” 

So far only two companies have reported major gains in the past five days: General Motors, who Friday announced they will begin production on their long-retired Impala line within the month; and the Belgium-based Herstal Group, current owners of the Winchester Repeating Arms brand.

_With additional reporting by WSJ staff_

\---

First saved message.

_Hi, Ben. My name is Sam Winchester, and, uh, you— you won’t remember me, but we’ve met before. My brother, Dean Winchester, he lived with you and your mom for about a year when you were maybe thirteen, and you won’t remember that, either, but he loved you two very much, and, well, I think he would’ve wanted you to have some things. Or I hope he would’ve, or, uh, anyways. Dean’s dead, and I will be, too, pretty soon, but there’re things you should have, and I’m leaving them for you with a woman named Jody Mills who lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Her number is 605 181 6745. I’m sorry to do this to you, because, I mean, I know how crazy it sounds, I do, but it would mean a lot to us, or, I guess, to me, heh, if this stuff could stay in the right hands. It was pretty important to us. And I’ve gotta go, but I— but I hope you’re doing alright, Ben, because that’s about all Dean ever really wanted. Thanks._

End of message. To delete, press 7. To save, press 9. For more options, press 0.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, Bovespa is the major São Paulo stock index, Nikkei is Japan's, and the Dow Jones Industrial Average is the US'. 51,488 is a conservative estimate for the Dow Jones in 2038, and a 7.8% fall is only slightly smaller than the drops recorded during the height of the recession (around about 2008). FN Herstal are also the current owners of the Browning Arms brand, as well as the Winchester brand.
> 
> I only tell you this because I spent way too long looking all this shit up for a 200 word fake news article.


	3. The Sixth Day

_Tuesday (Day 6)_

There's a bonfire behind Rebecca Rosen's house. It's very well-kept and very safe. The fire marshal will not be called, and the majority of the reporters camped out front will not question it. If you ask the neighbors, and WCAU-10 did, they will quite happily tell you that the Hailemariam-Rosen family has one every few weeks, and isn't that the sweetest thing. Mr. Hailemariam digs the pit, and their daughter, Anna, my she's grown up pretty, hasn't she, lays the gravel, and Ms. Rosen herself brings out the fuel.

"You going to be alright, Becky?"

Anna leans with one foot flat against the rear of the house, eyes slightly turned from the blaze as she talks into her phone. Her father grips an ash-covered poker lightly in one hand and rests the other on his wife's shoulder. He smiles warmly when she looks up from her hands. She's holding one of the books, rubbing circles into the cover with her thumb, and Dean Hailemariam knows exactly how soft time has worn the cheap paper, how the pages have yellowed and their edges come loose from the binding.

Dean’s been married to his wife for nineteen years and been married to those books for just about as long. He has built shelves for the books, moved house with the books, duct-taped the books, bought the books (never sold the books), and even read the books on occasion, although he always preferred when Becky read them to him. There are few things Dean loves more in the world than the brightness in his wife's voice when she talks about her boys, even as she hit 40, then 50, and her passion faded to the kind of warm, familiar, love with which you regard the family dog.

He’ll miss the books, and each piece of his life contained therein, but he knows he's losing comparatively little tonight.

"I'll be fine, Dean, really," she smiles, raising her hand to grip his, though her eyes remain on the book.

"We could save it, you know. Just the one. It wouldn’t hurt."

She laughs, a little with bitterness, but mostly with genuine amusement.

"No." Her smile is a bit smaller now, and a bit fonder. She takes a step forward, firelight blooming brilliant on her skin, and tosses the book into the flames.

"The Monster at the End of this Book was always a bit meta for my tastes, and Chuck, well, he was a sweet man, especially considering how I used to act, but he never quite knew what he was doing writing girls,” she says. “Most aspects of his writing left a bit to be desired, to be honest, but he could tell the future like God himself was whispering in his ear, and there was no denying that. I've had an idea this would happen since I read that book."

She leans into Dean as she speaks, watching the pile of ash within the fire grow.

"It took a decade or so to realize I'd need to destroy the books after the Gospel was released," she sighs, "but the boys are going to a good bit important than they used to be. They're religion, now, and I think providing the world with every dirty detail of their saviors is a good way to get a lot of people killed. God gave us the abridged version, and I'm pretty sure that's the only version we need."

“Mom?”

Anna stands a foot back from her parents, one hand reaching hesitantly towards them. The light glows bronze on her cheeks, and the phone pressed against her chest still hums with muffled conversation.

“I’ve got the warehouse manager at Flying Wiccan on the line,” she says, “and he says they’re burning the old copies now. They’ve also found most of the proofs, and they’ve cleared the computers, too. The last of your old friends checked in, too, she said she’s cleared the last of the LJ communities left online. So I just need to hear back from my guy at the Wayback Machine, and I think we’re in the clear.”

Becky smiles at her daughter (who was unsurprised to realize at age 10 that she, just like the dog and the family car, was named after a Supernatural character), and waves a hand forward in invitation. Anna joins her parents, unable to keep her eyes off the crackling remnants of, for better or worse, her childhood, and Dean says over his wife’s head, “You’ll delete the phone records, too, yeah? And the email histories? The reporters are going to get smarter as this plays out.”

“Of course,” Anna returns, projecting professional-grade confidence. “I even tore up the receipt for the thumb drive. This is the last copy, and we’re the only ones to know.”

She reaches into a pocket and reveals a gray and white USB flash drive, far bulkier than the atomic storage sold at most supermarkets, and drops it into her mother’s outstretched palm. Whatever its inefficiencies, the drive is useful in its obsolescence, if only because no one will expect the newest testament’s Director’s Cut to exist on a thirty year old technology. Becky runs her thumb along the line of the drive’s cap, momentarily transfixed, then drops it into a pocket of her own. Her eyes return to her daughter’s and she says, to Anna and Dean both, “Thanks, sweetheart. I’m hesitant to keep any bit of this around, but there are a couple people who will need to know what happened as it really happened. It’s going to be bad for us, let alone those poor souls who didn’t have an idea it was coming.”

\---

WOODHOUSE: —And now we return to our affiliate station in Pontiac, where reporter Tamika Wade is on the scene. Tamika, what’s going on out there?

[CUT TO WFLD FEED]

WADE: It’s a madhouse, Simon, absolute lunacy. Religious fanatics, believers and nonbelievers alike, have swarmed this small town, and police are fighting to maintain a line around the house of Claire Novak, who, according to varying interpretations of the Winchester Gospels, is either the daughter of an angel or was in fact one _herself_. The scholars will be debating it for years to come, but right now I—[BLEEPED]

[WFLD FEED OUT, CUT TO STUDIO]

WOODHOUSE: Tamika, is everything alright? What’s happening—

[WFLD FEED BACK IN]

WADE: Sorry about that, Simon, the gathered crowd has rushed the police cordon! I’m trying to get ahead of them, see what it is they’re yelling for but it’s—[GRUNTING, CAMERA SHAKES]—it’s hard to get around, as you can see! I think it’s, yes, I think that’s Claire Novak stepping out of her house now! _aside:_ Tom have you got audio, can we get audio—

NOVAK: [UNCLEAR] _please just leave me_ [UNCLEAR] _my father was not_ [UNCLEAR] _don’t even believe in—!_

WADE: And she’s gone back into her house, Simon, and the police have begun to push the crowd back behind the lines. I couldn’t make out much of what they were shouting, it was worse than last night’s presidential press conference [LAUGHTER] but I think the crowd was asking for help.

[SPLIT SCREEN. NEW YORK | WFLD]

WOODHOUSE: We had a hard time hearing ourselves, Tamika, think you could fill us in a bit more?

WADE: Well, I think they wanted her to help them. A woman next to me was holding a picture of a child—I, they were asking for guidance. I think they’re scared, Simon, and Claire Novak is, for better or for worse, the closest thing we’ve got to a source on this whole business. I’m not even sure they all knew what they were asking for, they just—they just wanted help.

[PAUSE]

WOODHOUSE: Well, thanks, for that Tamika, and good luck out there. We’re going to go to commercial, then come back to talk to a former TA at Stanford who says she may have proof that Sam Winchester not only lived, but saved her from a _werewolf_. All that and more, after this.

[PAN OUT. CUT TO COMMERCIAL]

\---

Growing up, Jody Mills never thought she’d look back on her early forties as a wild and crazy time, full of black and blood and the kind of darkness she doesn’t care much to dwell on. To be honest, she tries to avoid looking back on it all, these days, at 67, with her hair white and her back aching when she stands too long. Her son died, and her husband died, and on the whole just a lot of people died. She doesn’t miss it.

Seems it missed her, though.

The Avis driver has a slightly stoned look about him, a certain distance in the way he forgets to ask for both her signature and her ID until he’s about to walk off. She can imagine he made it from northern Minnesota to Sioux Falls without once seeing hide nor hair of current events, and is sure she should be glad of it. She doesn’t appreciate the press.

She does manage to finally sign for the damn thing and the young mary jane aficionado wanders off towards the bus stop, fussing with his pockets, and Jody stares at the 1967 Chevy Impala so carefully delivered right to her doorstep and puts a hand over her mouth and tries not to cry. She loved those boys, if only because so few others ever cared to, but Lord knows they never knew when to quit.

The driver gave her a note before he left, said it had been on the passenger’s seat when he picked up the car, and she reads it, then wishes she hadn’t, then wishes she were younger, because this won’t be easy.

Then, because nobody can call her unintelligent, even when she’s red about the eyes and sniffling, she goes and clears the garage out and tries to remember how to drive stick.


End file.
